


Tetrachordian Blues

by hobovampyre



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor is Thorsty, Connor is a pianist, Hank is a Cellist, No Beta We Cry Like Men, hank is tired, musician au, will update tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-09-24 08:18:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17097146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobovampyre/pseuds/hobovampyre
Summary: Connor is a pianist who just wants to play, glory be damned. Hank just wants to watch someone play, damn his old glory.A tale of a piano and a cello.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I watched a couple play a duet with piano and cello and was like 'Hank and Con do that yeh"  
> so  
> Yayyyyy

Christmas time was the worst time of the year.

It was the time of year when Hank was at his busiest, arranging, composing and getting the dozens of equally busy musicians together in order to get their annual Christmas concert to somewhat workable condition. It was Hank's fifth year at the Detroit Symphony Orchestra and each year had been incrementally better than the last with grander guests, better music and better lights and better effects, so of course this would be the year his lead pianist would decide to quit on him.

"What do you mean you're joining a convent?? What does that even mean? There are still convents???" He knew he was yelling but, damn, he couldn't help it. He didn't need this, not right now. Not when the concert was barely four weeks out, a concert he really fucking needed a pianist for. It didn’t help that his work was _difficult_ ; he never chose the easy pieces and they had been practicing for this concert since August. August!

More words flew back at him, the rushed shuffling of gathered papers and Hank just snarled, hair falling loose from its bun as he just pointed towards the door. "Out. Just get out." More stomping, more yelling of a few choice words and then a finally slam; Hank was alone.

His body ached, anger flowing from him like a ghost leaving his body and he just sat down on the piano bench defeated, dejected, miserable. Why? Why was his life like this? Why was Christmas always like this? Just one hit after heavy hit and each year, a bit more of Hank chipped away, like one more broken string on his cello. One day, he wouldn’t be able to play anymore and then where would he be? Dead, if the good Lord gave a damn anymore but until then, Hank stared at the ivory keys that laughed at him and he resisted the urge to just slam his fists down against it. If the thing hadn’t cost more than his life’s savings, he would have, but in the meantime, he settled for smacking the low end a bit, drowning his sorrows in a pale imitation of the Jaws theme.

It was on the second minute of this two interval pass that a soft voice coughed beside him and he jumped, his fingers spreading into a chord on instinct as he scrambled to his feet. Beside him was a young man, bright brown eyes and a little smile, his gaze set on the keys thoughtfully before he grinned. “Not many would go for a G chord with an inverted sixth when playing Jaws, but I’m sure Williams would have approved.” Hank blinked and just the softest, “oh” when his gaze fell back to the piano, the young man still smiling, the lightest of blushes on his cheek.

“Mmph, well, Williams is dead, so we can do whatever we want with it.” The young man just hummed and then bowed slightly, hand extending on the rise up as his brown eyes locked firmly to Hank’s blues. It was intense and Hank knew that gaze; the gaze of someone who had ambition and it amused Hank to see it these days.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson. My name is Connor Stern and I’m a musician that has recently moved to this area. I would like to audition for your symphony.”

Hank held his hand for a moment then barked out a quick snippet of laughter, the sound a little meaner than he intended. “Ha, is that so, kid? We have auditions yearly for that, you know, and you missed it by a few months.” Connor’s grip never lessened and he just nodded, taking a step forward which forced Hank to take a step back to maintain a reasonable distance.

“I understand, but I would like to audition for you specifically. I am a trained concert pianist that graduated from several—“

“Wait, wait, hold up.” Connor stopped mid-sentence, the grip on Hank’s hand ever tighter as he looked down at the kid, reasserting himself as the leader in this conversation. “A concert pianist?”

“Yes, sir.” Squeeze.

This was too eerily convenient for Hank. He loses one pianist and another one walks in the same hour? No, something like that was too good, too nice to happen to Hank Anderson and with a thinly veiled sneer, he let go of Connor’s hand and guided him to the piano he was just twiddling on, sitting him down with a firm push to the kid’s slight shoulders.

“All right. You wanna audition? Play this.” He didn’t have time for games and if the kid was shit, well, he’d know soon enough.

The boy was blushing deeper and Hank could feel the kid’s nerves from here. Not the best impression, but he had said he wanted an audition, traipsed right up to him and downright demanded it; so, Hank was going to give it to him.

Reaching for a piece of music that had fallen onto the ground, he glanced at the title and grunted, moving pages until he got a little past the beginning.

“There. Maurice Ravel, Piano Concerto in G, second movement. Play.” It was one of the pieces for his concert and it wasn’t an easy one to play, let alone sight read but it wasn’t all around difficult either. A marvelous dance between the piano and orchestra; it was built for an accomplished player and Hank figured if this dumpster fire of a concert was going to burn, well, he may as well get some joy out of fanning the flames.

Standing back, he crossed his arms and waited, staring at Connor intently as the boy breathed slowly and carefully lifted his hands to place them across the keys. He had poise, for certain, but poise didn’t mean he could play. It just meant he could sit nicely. Moments passed and Hank could feel his patience cracking thinner, mouth opening to bark when Connor bounced once and began to play.

And he played.

Note by note, chord by chord, Hank’s arms fell in tandem with the widening of his eyes, the fall of his jaw while Connor kept on, his fingers dancing across the keys, singing with an unseen orchestra. Hank could see it now, that pause before was Connor reading the music in his head, coming in exactly as he would had they been performing live. Every rest, every sustain, Connor watched Hank as he would watch him on he podium and unable to help himself, Hank subtly began to conduct Connor through the piece, testing him, testing his ability to follow.

He was perfect.

Key by key, feeling by feeling, every accent, every whisper, Connor was perfect and Hank was…Hank was crying.

It was only a little bit, but it was cold on his cheek and he brought his hand to his eye just as Connor finished, lifting his hands so gently before placing them on his lap. Deep brown eyes turned to him and he could see the hope in them. Hope and excitement, youth and passion and Hank could feel himself falling a little bit in love as he did with anyone who had the same passion he did. It was a small, fleeting pang, but he took that and the moistness of his tear on his fingers and rubbed them away, clearing his throat as he just reached for another set of papers he had in his director’s book.

“Well, ah, Stern, was it? Mr. Stern, that was spectacular.” Hank had to wince in the light of the smile that lit Connor’s face and man, did he miss being so young, to smile so easily and honestly. “Sign these forms and return them tonight. Rehearsal begins at 6:30 sharp and I _will_ kick you out immediately if you’re late, do you understand me?” Frantic nods, Connor following him as they began to gather him a book. “The fee will be waived until after our Christmas concert on December 17th. After that, we’ll talk. These are the pieces we are playing; take them, learn them. My number is on the form but only call in emergencies or if you have concerns about any of the pieces.” He stopped short just as Connor was entering it into his phone, his fingers quick, long and thin. Hank blinked up back to his face, making sure he had his attention before crossing his arms again. “Are you sure you’re going to commit to this? I don’t have time or patience to deal with anyone who isn’t all in.” I let you in without a proper audition, kid, so don’t let me down.

Connor held his concert folder on his arms and he bowed deeply, and Hank hummed, head tilted as he waited. “I am very grateful to be playing under your tutelage, Mr. Anderson. I look forward to working with you. I will return this evening.” The expression never assuaged, just a sharp, smoldering intensity and Hank felt that pang again. Well.

“Good. See you tonight, Mr. Stern. And call me Hank at practice. Mr. Anderson was my father.” It was a joke murmured in a non –committal murmur but Connor gave an honest chuckle, that flush back and Hank couldn’t help but return it as mirthful brown eyes bore into him.

“Hank.” There was something about the way Connor said it that made Hank want to squirm…some hidden reverence in the sound. “Call me Connor, then, Hank.” And the older man just nodded, watching the younger go with—and Hank swore he saw it—the tiniest bounce to his step.

Hank waited for the door to close shut behind Connor, leaning and watching until he could finally just plop down on the leather cushioned piano seat once again.

“What a fucking roller-coaster…” He could feel his hair sticking to his forehead with how much he had begun to sweat and his body was so tired from going to anger, to anxiety, to anger again, then to excitement and now just the all consuming exhaustion that came from sudden relief. He tapped the keys of the piano again and, unbidden, the image of that young man sprung into his mind.

Maybe this Christmas wasn’t going to be _so_ bad. Another plunk of keys when something there was a crash, Hank whipping his head around just in time to see an intern hastily scrambling to pick up a few instruments that had been carelessly bumped to the floor, some of their displays nearly cracking.

“Hey!” Fuck, he spoke too soon.

 --------------------------------------------------------------

“Niles! Niles!” Connor sprung up the apartment steps, running his hardest to get to the third floor just so he could burst into the modest two-bedroom apartment he shared with his younger brother, Niles. “Niles, I got in! He allowed me to join!” Connor had just managed to round the corner into the living room when he caught his brother standing ramrod straight, his expression empty and hard and forward. He stopped just in time to process that sight but not quickly enough to correct and change his trajectory. Upon stepping into the kitchen, a nearly life-sized holo-projection of a severe looking women in deceptively bright, elegant clothing flicked its gaze over to the older brother and Connor froze, body freezing instantly.

“Connor.” The thusly named brother snapped to attention, walking the rest of the way into the living room, sitting beside Niles in the exact same position, eyes locked to the image. “Good to see you. I was just lamenting your choice of lodgings to your bother, here, but that can wait…who let you in what, Connor?” The question was spoken simply and on the surface, lovingly, but Connor knew what that tone implied all too well. Lying would do no use for him and he met her gaze, answering almost mechanically.

“I auditioned for the Detroit Symphony and was accepted into the orchestra, ma’am.”

The image inclined her head and Connor swallowed. That was the Disappointment Tilt. Beside him, Niles’ fingers twitched; he saw it too. Connor continued, knowing she expected a more elaborate explanation. “I saw it fit to ensure that I was practicing as much as I could. Rehearsals are only Tuesdays and Thursdays which have no conflict with any known meetings or recording sessions. This is so I may keep my skills as polished as possible with the least amount of hindrance to any other endeavors, ma’am.”

The woman in the living room hummed, eyes boring into Connor and he could feel himself getting sick, almost sighing in relief when her look fell back to his brother.

“Niles. Do you see how Connor applies himself? What have you done since arriving in Detroit? Piddle around with your little band? Oh, no, you left them behind…hm, do you even still practice?” The twitching fingers twitched harder, transferring to the other hand as he levelled a worryingly unaffected gaze to the woman. Under his breath, Connor prayed Niles wouldn’t be stupid, prayed his temper would hold itself and for a second, was almost relieved to see that maybe it would be okay when his brother scoffed, horror blossoming in Connor’s chest.

“Of course, mother. I practice in the alleyways beside dive bars and in the streets just as you like. Have to keep my rhythm and, well, we know how much you love busking.” Not a single inflection as he spoke but Connor could see their mother’s mouth twist the slightest, her chin now lifting in the Wrathful Tilt.

“Hm.”

Yeah, Niles was done for.

The brother in question never blinked and just as quickly as Connor saw their mother arrive, she as gone, the comm link disconnecting with a single, prolonged, agonizing beep.

“…..Niles! Oh my god, Niles.”

His little brother just shrugged, slinking from the couch to pull a pack of cigarettes out from beneath the cushions, lighting a stick a single, swift movement, inhaling deeply before sitting back against the plush of the couch. “She knows better than to pretend to give a fuck about me.” His voice was lower than Connor’s but only just so, a bit hoarser with years of nicotine abuse.

“Niles…!”

Another puff of air and the younger man twisted in his seat, legs drawing up to cross over one knee. “So you got into your DILF’s orchestra, did you?” His fingers were steady again but the foot on the floor tapped to some unseen rhythm, the only indication that he was being affected by their mother’s words.

The flush that Connor had been suffering from since first introducing himself to the greatest composer alive only worsened and Connor sunk down into their couch, pulling a pillow over to bury his face into. “Don’t call him that! And yes…he had me play Ravel.” Niles let out a harsh sound and Connor knew it was supposed to be a laugh, the younger brother stretching out to push his feet onto Connor’s lap.

“Is he insulting you?” His foot tapped the air and almost against Connor’s stomach.

“No! He doesn’t know me, so how would he know?”

“You say he’s the best composer alive and yet he doesn’t know who you are? Not very aware, is he?”

“….he’s important. I’m not.”

“Pft. Whatever.” Connor licked his lips and pinched the skin of Nile’s ankle and got a swift but gentle kick in response. “Keep going.”

Connor sat up and snuggled into the pillow more, playing with a bit of fabric at one of the seams before flowing back into his thoughts. “He had be play Ravel and I know I impressed him. He gave me the sign up forms and the music for the Christmas concert and rehearsal starts tonight at 6:30.” Connor smiled into the pillow, his cheeks so warm. “He touched my shoulders…” There was another nudge at his belly, and Connor pursed his lips together in a raspberry as Niles rolled off of the couch to flick his cigarette into the ashtray on the counter. He could tell Niles was going to say something because he always said something after he got out of reaching distance.

“So, you’re going to tell me you came in your pants just from one touch?” There it was, the sly little grin and Connor threw the pillow in his arms as hard as he could at his brother, following up to push at him when strong hands caught him by the wrists and carefully spun him into the adjacent, little dining room. “You are too easy…” But he was smirking; ire to that look but Connor was too busy staving off his embarrassment to take notice, sitting down to rub his hands to his face.

“I did not…”

“Hm, well, maybe you shall get your chance at practice tonight,” “-Niles-!” “I have a jam tonight anyway.”

Connor peeked out from behind his palms to owlishly stare at his brother, head tilted, thoughts whirring. “A jam? Already? You found a band?” There was hum, a pot clinking onto the stove as the flame flicked on beneath it. “…is it a metal band?” Another hum and Connor sat back, fingers falling to his chin to tap out his thoughts in Morse code. “Did mom find out? Is that why she called?”

“No, she just called to be a pest. And if she did know, so what?” Connor watched the pasta boil in the pot and rose to help his brother cook dinner, pulling out ground tofu, tomatoes and other such spaghetti-like things from the refrigerator.

“Niles, she’s going to stop giving you money soon, you know that.” Connor started in on the tomatoes, lifting his knife when Niles pushed him aside and took the instrument for himself, coming down hard on the fruit in harsh yet precise strikes, forcing Connor to the onions and garlic instead until Niles took that away as well. Connor’s nose wrinkled and he moved to the ground tofu, pulling out a pan and olive oil, glaring at Niles to dare and take this away as well. When the younger made no move to, he huffed and rolled olive oil along the smooth non-stick black of the pan, letting the huff breath into a sigh.

“If she does, she does.” Niles’ knife work was good; reminiscent of a brief stint in culinary school and he started in on the homemade pasta sauce as Connor browned the tofu. “I don’t need her.”

“Niles.”

A silence fell between them and Connor knew his brother was done with the conversation, his body stiff and closed off. Dinner was made swiftly and they ate in that prolonged silence until Niles stood up to put his dishes away, grab his jacket and head out. Connor followed suit soon after, carefully cleaning the after dinner mess before he, too, grabbed his jacket and went off to practice.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

 

Hank left the concert hall only once that day and it was hardly voluntary. The intern that had knocked over the string instruments earlier had managed to lose a few more pieces of equipment and Hank had to make an impromptu visit to a local music shop; on the symphony’s dime, of course.

He did manage to get some food in him along the way though it could be argued whether or not a mega burrito from Taco Loco could count as food, edibility be damned. His hair had found its way back up in a tight bun and somewhere along the way, his glasses had found a home perched on the bridge of his nose. He was sitting on a stool before the orchestra as people milled about and tuned their instruments, his jacket off and dress shirt sleeves rolled up to relieve some of the heat of the stage lights.

Several members murmured about the ruckus earlier, the loss of a musician—their best musician, but he paid them no mind, his eyes flicking over to the grand piano where a soft, brown-haired kid was getting himself settled on the bench, little tongue poking out from plump limps as he penciled in several notes between measures. Checking his watch, the analog second hand clicked to the twelve and it shifted to half past, the older man sitting up to tap his baton against the metal music stand.

“All right, everyone, let’s get this show on the road. Before we begin, I want to introduce our newest member who will be replacing Markus from here on out. Welcome Connor Stern. Everyone, reeds up!” Hank swept his arm towards Connor and the other members of the orchestra stared a little quietly, looking at the boy who grew increasingly redder as the seconds passed. “Come on, people, say hi.” The group broke out of whatever collective reverie they seemed to be stuck in and gave a murmur of hellos and greetings, Connor hastily sitting down to stare intently at his music. Lips twitching, Hank grunted, looking at his people with a sharp eye for that weird moment, but stood up tall, waving his baton once more to get their attention.

“All right, tune up everyone. Josh, if you would.” A tall Oboist in a plain blue hoody sat up straight and started to play a solid A-note as the rest of the orchestra filled in around him, flat pitches rising as the violins adjusted their strings, a few flautists re-fingering until the entire hall filled with a single, sweet note.

“Good, from the top. Connor, do your best but we aren’t going to stop for you.” The newcomer nodded and Hank brought his baton up and started with a lively bounce, his hands counting the tempo for four measures just to make sure they all had it. With a great flourish, he brought them in beginning outright with a fanfare of trumpets as any good Christmas show ought to. Brass and bells from a piece Hank loved, from one he wrote himself early on in his musical career. It was a nice homage to his early days and he’d developed a penchant for starting his shows with his own compositions, letting the audience know what they could look forward to.

From the brass came the strings to begin the winter’s journey, his body swaying to bring them in on a cascade, the bells still ever present, signifying the coming of Santa, of the holiday spirit. Humming, he brought in the trombones, a jaunt that danced with the opposing clarinets, and then the chimes! He waved his hands towards the pit in the back, and waited…and waited some more…until he set his baton down, the piece continuing on without the sweet tinkle of Christmas chimes.

With a flourish of his wrist, a closing of his fingers, he stopped the orchestra and looked pointedly to the back. “North. Where are my chimes?”

The group turned to look at the pit and they watched a sharp dressed woman with brown hair wrapped tightly in a braid walk quickly along the pit, duck under the xylophone, weave through the timpani and then just outright curse with a flourish of hopelessness. “I don’t fucking know where the chimes are!” Beside her, another woman with blue hair patting her back sympathetically and Hank squinted before remembering the intern from earlier, clicking his tongue.

“Oh, for Pete’s…Ralph! Ralph, come out here, please!” He placed his baton down and moved towards the stage left wing when a young man popped out of the curtain, hands fidgeting with the hem of a tattered looking shawl.

“Ah, mm, yes, sir? Ah, Mr. Anderson, sir?”

Hank softened a little, the poor young man being as skittish as a baby deer in the spring time and never receptive to anything to hard or forceful. Lowering his voice, he pointed back to the pit, at North who was gesturing at the empty space where chimes should be and then back to the young man. “Ralph, where are the chimes, buddy? Remember you knocked some down?”

“Ch-chimes?” Large blue eyes blinked rapidly at Hank before they lit up, darting around as they mentally followed a thought. “Oh! Chimes, yes, the chimes, ah, they fell. On the floor, they fell and so I went to pick them up, you see? I picked them up and put them back, yes.”

“ _Did_ you put them back, Ralph?”

Another pause and then the eyes darted to the floor, trailing some unseen line before there was a sharp few shakes of his head, blond hair dancing around Ralph’s eyes where one side of his bangs came down to hang over nearly one whole half of his face. “No…no, I didn’t. No, I…I cleaned them. In the back, they were dirty. I don’t like it when they’re dirty. Too pretty to be dirty.”

Hank hummed and bent down a little so that he wasn’t so tall, so imposing. “Can you go get them for me? Ms. North would very much like to play them. They’re too pretty to hide, too, you know. And I really want to hear them in the music.”

Ralph nodded his head so quickly, Hank could imagine his noggin popping right off, but that seemed to do the trick as Ralph scurried off with murmurs of “yes, too pretty, very much too pretty” before coming back with them cleaned, installing them quickly and perfectly, as he always did.

“Thank you, Ralph.” Hank gave the young man a thumbs up and he bounced happily, standing on the side, eyes wide and expectant. “Yes, you may watch, Ralph.” Another cheerful chitter and he scurried into the house, sitting straight as he settled beneath his soft, cotton shawl.

Hank chuffed, a small grin at the kid before turning back to the orchestra, hands rising with the motion. “Okay, from the top.”

 

 --------------------------------------------------------------

 

The rehearsal was everything Connor had hoped for and more. Hank was a master, an artist, and just…so very pretty to look at. Even better than the magazine covers on his piano, better than the recordings in his old bedroom, the moving photo frames on his night stand; Hank Anderson was a god among men and Connor was so very smitten.

His conducting style was lively, passionate and Connor found himself swept away in how his hair would fall over his eyes, slipping from its bun over his glasses as he moved. He gestured each section with such a precision that he was actually taking his own liberties that fit within the piece; it was like a dance and Connor couldn’t look away.

There was a life there in those deep blue eyes and Connor wanted so badly for Hank to notice how well he was playing. And he knew he was doing well, not a single missed note, not a single misfinger; he even followed Hank’s fermatas and rallentandos when the man deigned it fit to hold and slow the music. It wasn’t difficult, any of the songs they were performing. Connor had played worse and harder by himself in the dark countless nights, so this was such a refreshing change of pace.

By the end of it, Hank was sweating and Connor felt himself burn a little bit at the sight, his own brow just a little damp from his concerted effort to be impressive.

“All right everyone, good job, that’s a wrap. Simon, please rehearse that Tchaikovsky more, really son, I’ve seen you play Paganini and only cry once. We’re working towards Sivan so keep on. John! Well, John, you did good, I didn’t hear a single squeak, so I’m glad to see you’ve managed to keep up your practices. Okay, everyone feeling good? Any questions on any of this?” There was a flurry of voices and Connor just sat back watching, head tilted as he considered the Sivan comment, marking that away for discovery later. He waited for a few members to ask their questions as Hank lumbered over to their seats and conducted for whatever area they were struggling on. He was so attentive and just, so very good. Connor just watched him go to and fro as the crowd dwindled more and more until it was just him, Hank and the little intern named Ralph.

“You got a question, greenhorn?” Connor blinked quickly, head tilting up to catch Hank’s face, large and so very close to his own, the stage lights sending a halo around his hair. Connor only had one question and it was very inappropriate so he ducked his head, finger randomly pointing at the sheet music before him.

“Ah, yes, um, this part here…is it best to use the left or the right hand to make the chord.” He gestured with his hand and played them both ways, looking at Hank shyly, eyes barely connecting but enough to see that Hank’s expression was flat and horribly unimpressed. Connor made an error, oh no, now hank thinks he’s incompetent, no, he should have just asked about the weather, oh no—

“This way.” Connor’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt as a warm pressure pushed against his back, thick arms holding him still as he watched deft hands play a chord softly on the keys in front of him. Hank was so close, so warm, and Connor could smell his cologne, almost missed the way Hank played the chord a third way that was actually much simpler than either two he offered. “Like this. It lets you set up for the next measure without stretching so far.” His breath was so warm on his neck; his body so hot against his own, Connor couldn’t breath.

Then Hank was gone and Connor inhaled thickly, looking over his shoulder as Hank just crossed his arms, eyes searching. “But you knew that, didn’t you, Connor?” The younger man didn’t move, didn’t dare to. “You’re beyond classically trained...you didn’t make a single mistake the entire rehearsal and you’ve only had the music for, what, three hours? Hm.” He tilted his head and Connor could feel his heart pounding in his ears, anxiety riling in his stomach, his hands tightly wound around themselves in his lap. He opened his mouth to offer an explanation when Hank just tossed his head back and laughed, knocking the wind from Connor, because, what?

“Ha! Relax, kid! Ha!”

Connor could not do that.

“Ahh, Christ, look, it’s okay. You’re good, very good and you’ve just saved my ass something fierce. Though why you came here, of all places, with a talent like yours, I’ll never know. Don’t wanna fuckin’ know, just don’t go.” Connor snapped from his daze and shot up from his chair, moving in on Hank with a fervor that had the man stepping back. His face was flushed again, he knew it but he needed to convey why he came here, to this city, to this symphony.

“I love your work, Mr. Anderson! I’ve followed you ever since your debut at the London Philharmonic Orchestra! The youngest composer to ever debut there!” Connor knew he was being a bit much with the way Hank blinked at him, how his cheek flushed and his body began to close off but Connor couldn’t stop, not when his idol, his _hero_ was right there and had the audacity to doubt his importance.

“Woah woah, okay…ah geez.” Connor watched Hank put a hand over his chest, the other rubbing the back of his neck and god, it was adorable. Connor was in such trouble.

“Mr. Anderson...” Blue eyes lifted back to Connor’s and he licked his lips, noting the way those blues followed the gesture before flicking back. “I began my career in music because you inspired me to do so. I went with the piano, not the cello like you, but I promise. When I say I came here, it’s because I knew I would be working with one worlds greatest cellists and composers.”

Connor held himself, chin high as he waited for Hank to say something, anything that validated his claims. He smiled, and waited, watching as Hank was obviously struggling through something, thinking of something. Silence, stretching, waiting more and then Hank just shook his head, Connor’s smile involuntarily faltering.

“Sure, kid.”

What?

But Hank had turned away, his shoulders slumped low, and he began to put the instruments away with the intern from earlier. Connor was confused, that reaction was definitely not one he anticipated. He rubbed his fingertips together in a tic, trying to see if the older man would offer anything more before he moved to start helping them put everything away. He heard the hoarse grunt before he saw Hank look up, his tie loosened and shirt unbuttoned enough to show the coarse hair of his chest.

“Rehearsal‘s over, kid. This ain’t your job, go home.”

Connor’s eyes lingered over that chest but he pursed his lips, hoisting up a bundle of chairs to stack them in the back. “I wish to help.” It wasn’t easy, Connor’s physique not allowing for him to do much but carry a few chairs and push a few things, but he got to it, Hank just shrugging out a ‘suit yourself’ as they got to it.

The cleanup took no time at all and Connor lamented that he really would have to go home soon, staring at the dirt on his hands when a shadow overtook his palms. Connor blinked and carefully lifted his eyes, almost gasping with their proximity to Hank’s pretty blues.

“You just moved here, didn’t you?”

Connor stared at him, the smallest nod in response.

“Mmmph. Thought so. You don’t look like Detroit.”

Connor had no idea what that meant, but he didn’t dispute the claim.

“I like to acquaint myself with my people. Are you free tomorrow?”

Connor, once again, had no idea what that meant because his brain had just fizzled out and he just gave the same tiny nod as before.

“Good. Tomorrow at one, meet here and we’ll have lunch. I’ll show you around town afterwards. Get to know you better.” He reached over for a slip of paper and scribbled something on it, Connor’s eyes tracking him intently, taking the paper when it was handed to him. He stared blankly at it until his brain could process that it was a hastily scribbled number even though Hank knew he had it from the forms he was given earlier, that Hank had watched him put it into his phone. That meant Hank was giving him his number personally to make sure Connor had it. Oh. Ooohh.

He stared intently at the paper and then there was a soft pat on his back, his eyes snapping up just in time to see Hank walking towards the big double doors of the house exit. There may have been words exchanged, but Connor couldn’t hear them, his mind only just aware enough to wave back at Hank until Connor stood alone on the stage.

“Lunch.” Connor whispered so carefully, afraid, excited; a butterfly that landed on his cheek. “Lunch…!” And Connor laughed, holding the scrap of paper close to his breast, looking up at the ceiling. “He asked me for lunch!”

Nearly jumping out of his skin, he ran down the stage and he ran to his car, he ran to his apartment and he ran to his room; tearing out of his clothes to crawl into his little bed, burrow beneath the covers, and hold that little paper to his chest.

“Lunch…” He whispered again and he closed his eyes, just smiling.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

 

Hank was going to have to make another booze run soon at the rate he was going. Swirling the amber liquid in its glass, Hank‘s chest heaved, his fingers sliding through Sumo’s soft, auburn fur. “Greatest cellist...” There was darkness to that mutter, another swig of liquor to burn alongside it. He hadn’t played properly in years, just enough to keep his skills sharp, but useless. His eyes wandered and they found themselves on the picture frame against his mantle as they always did, sliding next dark form sat in the corner of the living room. Running his tongue over his teeth, he watched the whiskey turn in his glass and threw it back, rising from his spot on the couch in a single movement, stumbling to that dark corner slowly.

His cello was cool in his hand. Cool and dusty, a pang of guilt hitting him just like the whiskey did, and he sat down on his little stool, hugging the instrument to his chest, a tiny, desperate lifesaver.

He hadn’t really played since Cole died.

He brought the bow to the strings, his other hand settling over the fingerboard to remember the feeling of playing, of burning callouses into his fingertips. The same callouses were set over the neck in a G chord and he brought the bow up…and then he breathed, changing the fingers to a diminished G instead, letting the harsh tones grate against him in a saw wave of screeching, striking the bow harshly against the bridge.

“Fuck.” Hank set the cello back down carefully and flopped back onto the couch, fingertips tight, chest even tighter as he stared at the ceiling. He almost played something just then but, as usual, right at the end there, good ole Hank Anderson had to fuck it up.

“Fuck.” His chest heaved, the world lightly spinning from too much whiskey. “Mmm..” Unbidden, in the dark, his mind conjured up the image of that young pianist from today; Connor Stern, his brain reminded him. A soft face and even softer hands, a real talent that one and Hank felt his gut pulse, remembering just how well he played. Only a few hours of practice and he was ready to go live…that pulse in his gut spread again and he groaned softly, his competency kink rearing its ugly head.

Soft, pretty brown eyes. Gentle lips, such eagerness.

“Hank Anderson, you piece of shit…” The older man grumbled despite the gentle palm to his hardening dick. It was a bad day, a weird day, and his body needed something. Rolling off the couch, he pulled Sumo outside to do his business, letting the cold air cool his heating body until the dog scratched at the door to be let in. Walking past his counter, he snatched a bottle left haphazardly in the open and went down to hall to his room, closing the door and locking it despite living alone.

Old habits, he guessed.


	2. Groovesville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank gets out more; Connor wants to have fun for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no concept of pacing and you can tell I'm no writer, lol. But I'm having fun and I'm just lettin' my heart take me places.  
> Thank you for joining me!

The following morning was as beautiful a morning as Connor could have hoped for. Lying in his bed, he stared up at the ceiling, at one of the living pictures he had hung there when he and his brother moved in only a few weeks before. It was of Hank, of course. A younger picture but it was just as good, his hair cut short and a beautiful dirty blond shade, his mouth in a wide smile that showed his precious little tooth gap.

In this photo, Hank was posing outside in a field with his cello, his eyes squinting away from the sun despite the deep blue turtleneck rising up his chest. It was a midday shot, and underneath was some text about his latest album, the image flickering as the wind blew at his hair and the clouds sailed behind him. It was one of his favorites because the way he was posed allowed Connor a very nice and clear view of his body shape and the way he straddled his cello? He could see _everything_ in his jeans.

Connor sighed hopelessly, rolling in his bed before rolling out of it, plopping onto the carpeted floor with a cat-like stretch and a yawn. Dawn was only just beginning; his side table projected 6:30 A.M. into the air as he meticulously remade his bed, smoothing out every edge and wrinkle. Once that was satisfactory, he meandered to his bathroom and began his morning ritual, brushing his teeth dutifully in a crisscross pattern when he noticed the lights weren’t on in the rest of the apartment. Eyebrows furrowed, Connor leaned out of the hallway to peek into the kitchen, then the other way to see if the other bedroom’s lights were on. The door was closed-and also probably locked as usual—but the lights were out. He was the only one here, which meant Niles didn’t come home. Spitting into the sink, he cleaned away the toothpaste and hummed, fingers tapping against the rim before starting the bathwater.

He would have to ask his brother about that later; about the late nights and how he was going to have to explain that to their mother when she asked. Connor could never lie to mother so they had to come up with ways to word it that weren’t technically lying and Niles had perfected the art. He had to if he wanted anything to be kept sacred.

Running a towel through his hair, Connor stood before his closet and hummed, eyes sliding over the rows of blue and grey and black clothing, pursing his lips when nothing particularly dashing jumped out at him. It was a casual lunch, nothing more, and yet Connor could feel his skin itching to look as good as he could. He was meeting with Hank Anderson! A low buzz of excitement and sudden terror rolled in his belly and he began his breathing exercises as he just reached out and picked something. Everything matched so anything would do.

Dressing in a blue turtleneck--not unlike the one in the photo on his ceiling—Connor combed and styled his hair, curling a single piece over his brow so that it gave his face some interest and he did his best to ignore the way his cheeks were a perpetual flush. It would be okay, he could do this. It’s just lunch and then maybe a tour of the city? Glancing at the nightstand, he rubbed his fingers together and decided he could at least make some breakfast given he had woken up a good five hours before he needed to meet Hank. That should give him enough time to calm down and think of as many interesting things to say as he could.

Bare feet pattered on the cool kitchen tile and Connor got to work, pulling out an English muffin, some spinach and an egg. He had a tiny little pan that fit his single egg exactly and while it simmered, he cut his muffin in half and placed them inside up in the little convection oven Niles had gotten him for the most recent holiday. A single slice of Muenster cheese atop the finished muffin, then the spinach and then the egg and he was set, sitting at their little two seater table with a mug of black coffee to finish the meal.

“So, Mr. Anderson, what brought you to Detroit?” There was a mirror before him, something Niles added to make the space seem bigger, and in it he was working on his faces to show the proper amount of intrigue and, hopefully, as little blatant thirst as he could. Connor quirked his eyebrow and leaned his body away so that his left shoulder dipped near the table, legs crossed as his chin rested upon his hand. “Is that so? Aha! What a coincidence, I also came here for the rich musical opportunities! Oh, what opportunities, you ask?” There was a smiling trick he saw in a movie once and he flashed his teeth, eyebrow still quirked. “Well, I just happen to currently be in the middle of a debut album deal, all original songs though I _do_ also happen to have a cover of—“

“You look like an idiot.”

“—AFRICA—Niles?!” Jumping out of his seat, Connor clutched his chest as his brother draped his jacket over the back of the other seat and moved on to the kitchen to grab a mug. “You’re home late? Er, early?”

“Either or. Anyway, don’t talk like that. You look like a dumbass. You’ll scare him.” He popped a pod into their shared Keurig and pressed the button for the largest size, his eyes heavy and lidded, body smelling faintly of sweat. He looked happy though, Connor had to admit. A glow about him and there was the smallest upturn to the corner of his lips.

“So…the jam?’

”Was great.” From the fridge, Niles pulled out the other half of the English muffin and his own egg, popping the former into the oven and the latter into the pan.

“Good…so when mother asks…?”

“I was scouting potential venues for you to play in.”

Connor nodded, swirling his coffee in its cup as Niles doused his in cream. “That sounds good. Did you find any?”

The younger brother sat down with his own breakfast across from Connor and it was evident then what he’d been up to. Evident what the answer would be. “None.” Of course, with the way sweat had stained his brothers black shirt around the collar and under the arms, how his hair—usually so neat and styled—fell over his dark eyes in strands. Connor did his best to avoid the littering of hickies pressed brightly into his neck.

“Oh, well. Next time then?”

Niles didn’t deign to answer him, finishing his breakfast quickly before tapping the table twice while he stood, Connor’s attention snapping to meet his brother’s eyes as he stared down at him. “Be yourself. And remember, he’s human too.” The elder brother just pursed his lips as the younger began to shrug out of his clothes. “Goodnight, Connor. ”

“Good morning, Niles.” There was a soft click of a door and Connor dropped his hand, his gaze wandering back to the nervous expression in the mirror. “Myself.” Yeah, okay.

\-------

Hank really didn’t plan on inviting Connor out today. It was a spur of the moment decision, an urge to just ‘Hey, new kid, let me show you around town, you play piano really fuckin’ well and yeah, I feel the need to help you and also you’re really cute and I’m a lonely old fuck’ and yeah, okay, not at all something Connor should run from. He woke up late that morning, his head pounding as he rolled off of the couch to stumble to the bathroom and then from the bathroom to the backdoor where Sumo sat dutifully, waiting to pee.

“Good boy.” He muttered, swinging open the door to yawn and watch as the dog flopped about in the grass, searching for the right place to go. The sun wasn’t quite dead center in the sky so Hank figured it was around 11 a.m. Not too late, he thought, yawning again before shooing Sumo back inside so he could get his coffee fix. His joints ached and his head pounded, but he was alive and the day was actually beautiful, the smell of coffee only punctuating the bright and cheery morning, giving Hank reason to smile down at his dog. “Well, buddy, Daddy’s got a weird ass date today. I know, I know, don’t know what I was thinkin’ either. Poor kid must be terrified I’m gonna maul him or something. At least I kept it to daylight hours.” He all but chugged his first cup of coffee and went in to make another as he stared out his window, watching the neighbors walk by with their kids. A frown twitched in his lips but he brushed it off. Not today, Anderson, not today.

New cup of joe in hand, he made his way back to his room and picked something semi-nice at semi-random, dressing himself to be somewhat presentable. He took his orchestra very seriously. He loved his work and he wanted his people to have faith in him; can’t have faith in a man that dresses like a drunk hobo. Sipping his coffee, he placed his glasses on his face and then took them off again, alternating before finally settling on keeping them off but in his jacket pocket just in case he needed to read something small.

With that decided, he brushed and tied his hair up, spinning in the mirror as he patted his gut through the patterned dress shirt, holding it in before letting it flop all back out with a gust of air. Well, whatever, being fat didn’t mean anything to music. “Be a good boy, Sumo, Daddy will be home after a bit.” There was a gentle boof and Hank grinned, winking at his dog before heading out.

By the time it hit noon thirty, Hank had gone through an automated carwash and tidied the inside a bit, a little glad to have a nice clean car for once. It was uplifting, his mood vastly improved from the night prior to the point where he was blasting music on his old school speakers, singing along at full voice. At one on the dot, he saw another car—black, wealthy--drive up with two people sitting in the front. One was obviously Connor and he stepped out of the car only to spin and bend down to speak to the driver. The driver was taller than Connor, it seemed, but Hank couldn’t make out the features all to well before he was driving off.

The boy looked nervous, nice, but nervous and he stood there with his hands behind his back before Hank popped out of the car to wave him over. Relief was evident on the young man’s face and he scurried close, bowing to Hank a little bit before opening the passenger side door to slide into the plush seat. Had the kid been running? His cheeks were a little flushed, not that it was any of Hank’s business.

“Hey, Connor. Glad you made it.” There was a responding nod, quick and eager, and Hank smiled, hoping to ease the tension. Connor only blinked slowly, the redness of his cheeks spreading and Hank fought the urge to emote his curiosity at that. “So, I figured you were hungry so we’re gonna go to my favourite burger joint.” Connor sat up taller, a little stiffer, fingers twitching against his lap.

“That sounds nice.” His voice was small even with its rough texture, but hey, Connor was a small guy. Tall, but trim and fit, unlike Hank’s massive girth and most musicians—pianists especially-he met tended to be small. Small with massive, spider-like fingers and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing down at Connor’s fingers and yep, spider-like and long, but hey, his were nearly callused to the bone himself. The life of a musician was wrought with hand abuse. Upon the upswing, his eyes caught Connor’s and they stood frozen for a moment before Hank coughed into his fist, breaking whatever spell Connor caught himself in. “Well, get on in, son.” A strange expression passed over Connor’s face but Hank was already sliding into the driver’s seat, opting to ignore it. Connor slid into the passenger’s side and buckled up, smiling a little at Hank who just gave a thumbs up before peeling out of the lot.

“So, Connor, what brought you here to lil ole Detroit? You’re good. Better than this place, I wager.” There was the sound akin to a gasp and then maybe a mutter but when Hank looked over, Connor was sitting straight then he leaned his shoulder in a little bit, then seemed to think better of it, settling to just stare ahead.

Weird.

“I came here for the musical opportunities.” At least he sounded calmer than he looked. Really, he should have thought better of asking such a young kid to lunch when he was as imposing as he was but what can you do?

“Yeah, what opportunities are those?”

There was another beat of silence and when Hank flicked his eyes over, the young man’s large brown eyes were boring holes in his head, and Hank shuffled a bit awkwardly. “What?”

“….I am...trying to record an album.”

“Aahhh, I see, one of those hopefuls, eh? Well, for one, records are tough as shit to record, but second? Fun as hell. Well, Connor, you got the chops for it, so good luck.” There was a responding hum as they pulled off to the side of the road. He could see Connor lean forward, eyes wide as they took in the tiny trailer posing as a food stand. “Come on, then. Welcome to the Chicken Feed.” He gave a grin and hopped out, letting the wave of cool air hit him with a pleasant shiver. He could hear the scuffle of feet behind him and then Connor was there, staring into the little shack with something akin to, well, it wasn’t horror at least.

“Chicken Feed’s a home grown place. Locally owned and sourced and home to the best burger this side of the city.” The awestruck look only lessened slightly as Hank whistled for Gary to turn around, a pair of headphones sliding down to his neck as he nodded.

“Sup, Hank. The regular?”

“Mhm, and for my friend here, ah, what do you want Connor?”

“Um.”

Hank watched Connor as the young man just stared wide-eyed and confused, eyes darting from the very few options there. That was something; the choices weren’t that hard.

“Uh, what he’s having. Uh, but with a…a soda. Um...any soda?” Was the final answer and Hank made an amused face, arching a brow before turning back to Gary.

“You heard him, too regulars and, ya know, any soda for me, too.”

Gary harrumphed, unamused and uncaring as he turned and got to it, leaving Hank to turn and cross his arms, leaning against the order window. “So, an album, huh? Havin’ any luck with it?”

“…some.”

“Some, eh? Aha, well, keep at it, kid.” Hank gave Connor a hearty slap on the back and the young man spluttered slightly, face flushing a nice crimson before frowning.

“I’m almost thirty. And…I’ve recorded before.”

“Woah, no shit? Good on ya! Indie publishing is hard but I respect it. Lets you be yourself, lets you express yourself more. Never liked the main labels _because_ they always had to stick their little fingers in everything, but hey, they do pay well. You should bring some copies to practice; I’d love to hear it.” Connor seemed like he was about to say something when Gary thrust two trays of food into Hank’s face and, with a finger of ‘one moment’ waving, he grabbed them and made his way to the standing tables off to the side, Connor left behind to grab the drinks.

\------

Connor has never before in his life eaten meat.

He stood there double fisting the two chilled drink cups and he stared at Hank as he made his way to the tables. He absolutely did indeed stare at his ass as he walked.

Getting to the table, he could see that the food was a lot. There was a pile of fries—which he’s had before thank god—beside this behemoth of a burger and he was horribly intimidated and yet so excited? A thrill of something forbidden knowing his mother would be furious he had something so grossly unhealthy. He would have to tell Niles about it later.

He waited for Hank to take a bite so he could kind of see how it was done and with no small amount of gusto, he chomped down on his own sandwich, feeling the crunch of everything involved when he froze.

Oh.

Warm, juicy, savoury.

Oh.

“This is so good!” A sudden exclamation through half-chewed food and then he was eating with fervor, getting about half way through when there was sudden pang in his stomach. Wincing, he washed it all down with soda and _that_ was equally exciting. His first soda in however many years and the sudden sweetness had him coughing a bit until a large hand started in on his back, slapping firmly, carefully like Connor was something that could easily break.

“Woooah, slow down there…almost like you’ve never had a burger before.”

Connor coughed enough to water his eyes and he bobbed his head, nodding as he carefully nibbled a few fries. “Haven’t.” His voice was hoarse and Hank’s eyes just bugged, his whole massive body rearing forward.

“What? You’ve never had a hamburger??”

“No. Wasn’t allowed to eat meat, nngh, my stomach hurts..”

“Yeah, well, never eatin meat does that to ya. Damn, why didn’t you say something, I coulda picked a vegetarian place.” The voice was harsh but sincere and Connor smiled, taking another bite despite himself, just shaking his head.

“No, this is great. New.” And he smiled wide; face flush from choking and just sheer happiness.

“Eerr…well, just go slow then, huh?”

Connor hummed, eating a few more fries before taking another, smaller drink of what he now could tell was a regular Coke. Amazing, there was so much sugar in a regular Coke. Digging in, he managed to eat another few bites of the burger before his stomach finally decided it had had enough, switching to the fries just as a car pulled up beside them.

“Jesus…”

Connor blinked quickly, eyes looking up to Hank at the sudden change and saw how still he had become, how angry…? His body had begun the slow twist to follow Hank’s sightline but the larger man started first, and for that, Connor was unknowingly grateful.

“Hank Anderson. Funny how I always know where to find you.”

Connor’s heart jumped. The voice sliding over him was a cool, calm and completely recognizable tone; terror welled up in his chest, stopping his lungs. He couldn’t move, his food oozing from between his crushing fingers.

“Elijah.”

Elijah Kamski, Detroit’s richest man and a very well known patron of the arts.

Connor had used him against his mother to argue coming to Detroit, using the biggest name he could to convince her to let him move here, to move closer to his hero. It worked out wonderfully but really, and Connor should have known this, nothing ever works out perfectly when his mother is involved. It took all of a week for his mother to send him an email with a detailed contract attached along with permission to make the move. Connor had stared in utter disbelief at the label: Kamski Sound and Cinemas. His beast of a mother actually reached out and signed him.

_“Elijah is an old friend. I was thrilled to see you finally interested in bigger work, Connor. Elijah has a film coming up and we talked. This move was a good decision.”_

Connor shivered away his mother’s ghost and he hunkered down in his seat. Why was he here? Why was he talking to Hank? Well, Connor knew why, Hank was amazing and released under a label Kamski had bought out (hence why he wanted to come to Detroit, how he knew about Kamski at all) but, really, now? Here? If he saw Connor, would he tell his mother? Would she be angry? Would—

“Hey, let’s takes this elsewhere, hm? You wanna talk, we’ll talk.” Connor watched Hank move out of his line of sight towards Kamski and the two of them went off to the other side of the trailer, giving Connor just enough view to see Hank but not Kamski. That meant Kamski couldn’t see _him_ and that was a small mercy, his body already thrumming with the nausea of anxiety. He tried to listen in, but his heart was pounding louder than their voices so he sat back and chose to watch and try to lamely lip read.

Though he couldn’t hear much anything, he could obviously see Hank wasn’t pleased, his stance hard and imposing, looking down at Kamski, his foot tapping quicker and quicker and without much rhythm. Another fast hiss, a snarl of teeth and then Kamski was making his way back to his car looking a bit dour from this perspective, Connor shirking to avoid his gaze until he could hear the peel of expensive tires and the steady stomp of Hank’s shoes.

Hank was pissed when he returned and Connor could see he was trying to rein it in. His face was red, flushed and his hands kept curling and uncurling into fists.

“Fuck that guy. Fuck his rich ass prickin’…ah, sorry. Sorry, you don’t need to hear this.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah, I know him. More than I wanna, but, whatever.”

Blue eyes flicked down to the balled up napkin on Connor’s plate and Connor just nodded, silence pressing in awkwardly between them. Hank had returned to his food, but his entire demeanor had changed, his eyes guarded, face scrunched and unwelcoming. He watched the older man pick at his food before finally giving up on it, tossing his wrapper down with a disgusting huff. He took his tray and glanced at Connor, looked at his plate and pointed in a silent question. _You done?_ Connor lifted his hands up in affirmation, the tray disappearing and reappearing empty atop the trash bin.

Connor could only follow meekly behind, seating himself in the car when Hank sat beside him, both hands on the wheel, tight and strained. They remained together like this for a few moments, Connor watching as Hank’s fingers splayed and squeezed along the worn leather of the steering wheel, exacerbating its already considerable wear and tear. He could sense Hank was thinking about something, his lips moving in soundless mutterings before his body deflated like an old balloon, sinking down into his seat, the wheel left alone at last. Connor’s eyes followed the arc of his hands where they fell onto Hank’s thigh. The tips were rough, callused and Connor wanted badly to feel how soft his own were in comparison.

 “Look, Connor,” Hank had turned towards him, his eyes soft, pleasing. Connor had already forgiven him for whatever he was about to say so he just smiled as warmly as he could to put Hank as much at ease as he could.

“I..I gotta go and do something….something that just came up and I won’t be able to show you around the city, it’s…I can’t postpone…I just gotta ..I have to do it.” He looked so tired and Connor shook his head, sitting straight, hands up in the same thumbs up Hank gave him earlier. Hank’s mouth lifted into a lopsided smile that wasn’t okay but it wasn’t as bad as it just was so Connor took that as a good attempt.

“It’s okay Mr. A—Hank. It’s okay, Hank. This was fun, I had a good time.” Connor kept his grin and Hank responded wonderfully, sitting up with his cute, gap-toothed grin reflecting in the side window.

Connor was so smitten, it hurt.

“If you, ah, would like, Hank, we can continue this later?”

Staring at Hank like he was, Connor saw something pass across Hank’s features but before he could rescind his offer, the man gave a quick burst of laughter, slapping the battered wheel. Connor’s eyes widened with a sudden anxiety, a slow hurt trying to bubble up when Hank just turned that beautiful grin back on Connor and the hurt just couldn’t find purchase, dissipating as quick as it appeared.

“You know what, yeah.” Connor’s chest gave a soft ‘ _oh_!’ “Ha, yeah, I would like that. Not tonight though, but maybe tomorrow night after rehearsal? We can grab a bite to eat and ya know what? It’ll be my treat since I’m the one who has to bail out early.” Connor bobbled his head and Hank gave a pleased grunt, punching something into the tablet he hooked onto his aircon vents. “Great. You pick the place though since I picked today now, tell me where a young, master pianist lives so I can get you home, eh?”

Connor swallowed, his face flush and heart stuttering, typing in his address where Hank had pulled up the address book. He tried very hard not to think about how Hank would always know where he lived and instead moved on to mundane topics, the car settling into a soft lull all the way back to his apartment.

\------

Hank rolled into his house, tired and annoyed, plopping down on his couch only to be immediately mauled by his bear of a dog.

“Oomf, sumo, no!” Dripping jowls smeared their love all over his face and Hank sputtered, rolling off of the couch only to be a better target for the affectionate beast. Hank sighed and laughed, his breath light and sad as Sumo licked the sweat from his forehead. “Yeah, yeah boy, I know.” Sumo barked once and then leapt off, nails clacking over to the door where he turned to thump his tail against the screened door.

Hank pushed himself up and off, his eyes lingering on the cello in the corner, lingering to the floor once it left his sight and he pushed open the door to let Sumo out. The day wasn’t yet done, the dusk descending slowly over the banks of clouds, leaving everything a wistful tinge of orange.

Hank loved the dusk, loved the way the air cooled and the world calmed, the way the world seemed to simmer down into a steady drone of life and love and activity. Sumo hopped around as he did but, as always, the dusk wasn’t play time and he strolled back to Hank like the dutiful pet he was. Reaching down, the large man ran his hands through the dog’s shaggy fur and sighed, leaning down to kiss his speckled head and just crouch there for a moment holding Sumo gently.

He had a good time with Connor, the kid’s large brown eyes just so wide and so, well, cute. Hard to believe he was as old as he was but hey, some people wear their youth well; people that weren’t Hank. And it would make sense for him to be as old he was and play as damn good as he did.

Hank felt his fingers itch but this time in a way they hadn’t in a long, long time: a good itch, the itch to play. Standing with a pop of his knees, Hank led Sumo back inside and made his way to his bedroom, shedding the day’s clothes as he punched in a number on his phone, holding it to his ear by his shoulder as he stepped into a pair of nice brown slacks.

“Come on, Ben, pick up…pick u—“

“Ben’s Bar and Jazz, how can I he-“

“Ben!”

“Woah, Hank? Hey, buddy, long time no anything. How can I be of service, old friend?”

“Yeah, I know, sorry, Ben, but you got an open roster tonight?”

“Yeah, always for you Hank. Want to waive the tips like usual?”

“Uh, actually..”

“Say no more. We open at 7 and go till 3, can you do the whole run?”

“Whole run.”

“That’s swell, Hank, it’s good to hear from you, I’ll see you tonight. I’d drinks are on me but…”

“Har har, see you then.” Hank dropped the phone onto the bed and pulled out a nice, worn yellow and brown dress shirt. The pits were stained slightly but the wonders of choosing this color was that it matched with the rest of the splotchy pattern of the garment so no one would be any wiser if he ever needed to take his jacket off. Speaking of jackets, he pushed all of his clothes to the side to get at the farthest corner of his closet, a single brown jacket hanging from a single thin wire hanger pressed tightly against the wall. It was lightly dusty from misuse and Hank smacked it a bit to clean it up, holding it in front of him with a satisfied hum.

It was a reliable old thing. The elbow patches were frayed and the collar was a little crinkled but it held a certain personality to it; a magic because even now, years upon years of sitting in his closet, it still fit around his shoulders perfectly, like the warm hug of an old friend.

Hank stood in front of the full length mirror that hanged from his door and fixed his hair, tying it back out of his eyes so he could see how the hat sat upon his head. Eyeing himself, he glanced to the side and then reached for a small cup that sat on his dresser. Thick fingers fished something out of it and with a swift movement, he placed a gold ring in his earlobe, completing the look he was going for even if it was a bit dated.

It had been a really long damn time since he’d played at the club and Hank regretted that, the way his silver hair made his ensemble look faded and worn out instead of hip and cool like in his yesteryears. To be fair, was he ever hip and cool if that’s the vernacular he was going with? Hank snorted at his image in the mirror, shoving past it to pet Sumo and get his keys. He was arriving early but really, Hank didn’t have anything better to do and once he carefully packed up his cello, he patted the old leather case with a grin.

“You, me and the club, old girl, just like we used to.” And he kissed the case, patting it once before walking out.

The club had changed exponentially when Hank got to the venue, his blue eyes wide and in absolute awe.

It was huge.

It used to just be a single lot in the strip it resided in but somewhere along the years it had managed to grow and eat the next three adjacent leases, the behemoth stretching along the street like a fat, lazy beast just waiting to eat the rest of the poor businesses beside it. There were lights, god there were so many lights and they flashed and crooned and drew in crowds of people, most of who were standing outside in a queue to get in. Everyone was dressed like they were creeping into some old 50s club and Hank almost turned around right then when a sudden hand clasped at his shoulder, spinning him around before pulling him into a massive hug.

“Haaankk!”

Thick, strong arms held him and Hank blinked, the shock falling from his face to morph into absolute joy.

“No, shit, Luther??”

The man in question laughed, hands sliding down his arms to grasp his hands firmly, his face as bright as the sun with his joy.

“The one and the same, friend. Ben called me to tell me the infamous Hank Anderson was playing tonight. Wanted to see if I wanted to bring old Alice out of retirement.” His large hand patted the tiny case at his hip and Hank just had to laugh, stepping back to get a good look at his old friend.

Luther had grown up something fierce. Tall, broad and massive, his silken vest nearly bursting at its buttons, his lavender sleeves rolled up to show off his utterly bulging biceps. It would have been obscene if Luther was anyone other than an old friend and Hank just had to laugh.

“I can’t believe it.” The old man muttered, reaching in for another hug the younger man eagerly reciprocated, just as excited to see Hank as Hank was to see him. “You still seeing that young man, uh, Jerry, John, Jo—“  


“Josh yeah and well, you could say that.” He lifted his left hand and a flash of gold flickered in the club’s obnoxious glow and Hank gasped, staring at Luther with a bubbling pride.

“Holy fuck, when?”

“Well, two years now. We’ve got a little girl. You get one guess on what we named her.” His smile was coy but so broad and Hank just reached up to slap him hard on the back, just thrilled.

“Good on you, son, good on you! Damn, I’m sorry I missed it.” Hank’s smile fell on one-side and he could feel the self-deprecation building in the back of his mind, but like old times, Luther just shook his head and clasped his hand tightly, chasing the beast away.

“You were busy. It’s okay, Hank. We’ll invite you to her next birthday party, how’s that?” It was a compromise Hank could deal with and Luther just grinned, stepping back to sweep his free hand to the side towards the club. “Now, after you, Mr. Anderson. Ben’s managed to get a practice space before sets and I’m excited to see backstage bar he’s been bragging about. I hear they have a blender for smoothies.”

It was amazing to Hank how some people could change so much and yet so little. Luther looked good. He looked real good and even now, beckoning Hank over to the backstage entrance, his smile as bright as ever. It was amazing to Hank, truly, and he hustled on over to the door, smiling back at Luther just as brightly.

“Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Let’s.”

The “practice space” as Ben called it was the old managers office Ben used to sit in during the day to do daily work before he opened the doors in the evening. It wasn’t huge but it was clean with a small wet bar to the side, stands and amps for the musicians as well as a huge leather couch perfect for sitting and talking in. Hank put his case down and set his hat on the rack beside the door and whistled low, nodding.

“He painted? It looks good in here, never knew there was so much room.”

“Neither did I.” Hank spun around with a blink as Ben waved from where he leaned on the doorframe. “But, he, after fifteen years of squeezing myself in here, I figured it was time for a change.” Hank winced inwardly, knowing Ben was berating him for staying away as long as he was but Ben, well, Ben was good people. Hank was lucky to have him and just like that, the shorter man walked up to Hank and stuck out his hand, waiting. Hank looked at his fingers and a warmth bloomed in his chest, his own wrinkled hands taking Ben’s and squeezing before both men simultaneously pulled each other into a big, gentle hug.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Hank. It really is.” Hank ignored the way his voice shook, ignored the way both their voices shook and the way Luther had politely turned his gaze to slip his trumpet from its case.

“You, too, Ben. You, too.” They held each other for a moment and then Ben pulled away first to start a round of drinks.

“Hank?” Ben’s face was pleasant but his voice was careful and Hank looked at the bottle before nodding.

“I’m better, Ben. I’ve…”Well, considering the night before he was black out drunk aside, he’d been doing better. “I’ve been doing better. And this? This is social drinking. Much better than me and my dog in the middle of the night watching reruns.” Luther made an agreeable noise and nodded.

“You know what, Ben? Me, too. Pour me something special.”

Ben feigned a gasp as he pulled out four glasses and set them on the table. “Luther! Drinking in my bar? I think I’m going to get my camera. I want to remember this.”

“Only if you make me a copy and let Alice frame yours. She’s started paper crafting and, well, her play scissors don’t actually cut but it’s fun to watch her glue things together.” Luther had taken his hat off as well and was fixing his hair before standing beside the other two men. He watched Ben pour what promised to be good whiskey when there was a sudden grunt at the door.

“What in _the goddamn_ mess is this I see?”

Hank choked his first sip, his face whipping around to gape at the man now darkening the doorway. Standing at a hefty 6’ feat, dark purple suit and equally purple feathered hat was the best sight Hank ever did see looking just as pissy as he always did.

“Jeffrey?! Jeffrey!” Hank downed the glass and dropped it on its head to the table, whisking past Luther to rolling bear hug into his old producer, nearly knocking him over and the drumsticks in his hands onto the floor.

“Hank, fucking, Anderson!”

“Jeffery, fucking, Fowler!”

“Damn, Ben, you knew I wouldn’t have come had I known this old bastard was coming.” Hank snorted because, yeah, he wouldn’t have. He and Jeffrey, well, they didn’t part on good terms and it had been a good few years since they had spoken. It was a shame, all the people he missed by fucking off like he did. Still, he was here now and knowing Jeffrey, he thought the same thing. Hank watched the other man look at the room and nod, a wry grin splitting his harsh features before snatching the glass from Ben where it was held in front of him.

“To the Old Man Band!” Jeffrey raised his glass and Hank took the refilled one from Ben, lifting it up with him as well until all of them had their glasses raised. “To the Old Man Band—“

“And Luther.” Ben supplied helpfully.

“ _And_ Luther. Let’s rock this joint. Cheers!” Whiskey spilled and glass chinked, but they were all smiling and laughing and Hank couldn’t stop how good it felt to be with his old gang. And, honestly, Hank thought as he downed the shot and reached for another, it was all thanks to Connor. It had been a long time since he had a good time outside of the symphony with anyone that wasn’t Sumo. Amazing what one day with someone else could do for the soul.

Grinning, Ben looked at the clock and whistled for the crew to wrap it up. “All right, we go up in ten and I gotta go break out the old sax from the closet.”

“Thank you ten!” They hollared in unison.

Yeah, Hank was gonna have to do something nice for Connor for sure.

\-----

 

“Get up. I found a venue for you and we need to scope it out for mother.”

Connor was laying in his room, on his bed, on his back, sheaves of paper spread around him like a musical facsimile of wings. He was working on his latest piece, a soft ballad inspired by recent events, and he grunted unpleasantly at being so rudely interrupted and dragged through the process of getting dressed and sent out the door.

Niles, however, could not have cared less.

“Brother, why? It’s late and I was working on something.” Connor sat back in the passenger’s seat of the car, tugging at the ridiculous outfit Niles had seen fit to purchase him at some point during the day. Niles himself was dressed just as sharply if not old-fashioned with his dress shirt and suspenders. The brothers nearly matched, only Niles had a jacket, and Connor grunted, tugging his owns straps to get them to sit right on his shoulders.

“It’s only 9 o’clock and you can work on it tomorrow. Gavin told me about this place and he said he would meet us there.”

“Gavin? Who’s Gavin?” Connor’s ears perked up, peering at his brother’s profile as they drove.

“From the Jam.”

“Ah! That’s why you started playing again! A boy!”

Niles’ nose scrunched up and his cool blue eyes flicked to the side to glare at Connor, his fingers starting up an agitated 7/8 rhythm. Connor loved Niles’ tells, grinning from ear to ear as he kept prodding and poking the other to see how many different complicated patterns he could cycle through before he snapped.

“Is he a guitarist? Couldn’t be a pianist, you hate the keyboard. No! Not another drummer, Niles you—“

“Enough.” The car stopped abruptly and Connor pitched forward, catching himself on the dashboard just in time to avoid braining himself on the console.

“Niles!” He chastised, his heart pounding through its adrenaline but the younger brother was looking away from Connor, looking towards their intended venue. Connor blinked around Niles and leaned towards the driver’s seat, gazing up at the bright, blinking lights of the place. It was massive and it looked expensive.

“…Bar and Jazz? Niles, _a bar_?” Connor was aghast and he knew for a fact mother would never approve of this. Niles, however, ignored him, stepping out of the car to let the valet take over. Connor quickly hopped out himself and the two made their way to the front entrance, the line of people out the door seemingly endless. There was no way they were going to get in and Connor could feel himself getting nervous. For all his performing, Connor really didn’t like crowds, didn’t like being pressed between dozens of foreign bodies, unable to get out or even know who was touching him.

Niles, however, was once again unfazed. He sifted through the people directly to the front and flashed something at the bouncer, the man stepping aside and smiling despite being dressed like an old world gangster. Connor grinned back weakly, shirking past him awkwardly, trying very hard not to touch or be touched by the throngs of people in flapper dresses and spats. His fingers found Niles’ and the younger brother squeezed them tightly, guiding them through the main area of the club to a small corner booth that housed considerably less people, sitting them both down, giving Connor time to breath.

He didn’t like to talk about his fear of crowds but Niles knew and for that Connor was very grateful. They sat there at the table while Niles ordered them drinks and Connor took the opportunity to soak in the atmosphere of this place. It was a marvel, this bar. On the inside, it felt smaller than it was; homey, warm. The music was a soft jazz that moved Connor nicely, the low dulcet tones of a cello finishing a phrase before breaking out into an improvised piece along with what sounded like a trumpet or a bugle.

People sat at their little cloisters of lamplight, sequestered away in their own little conversations and meals lost completely in themselves. No one looked at him and in turn, he could skim the patrons and appreciate how well dressed and well-behaved they all were. No drunken brawls, no loud yelling or laughing. Well, there was laughing but it was contained and lighthearted, calm, and soothing. Connor found himself lulling to the atmosphere, sipping the water his brother had ordered for him, almost missing the near imperceptible slide of a visitor in their booth.

Connor looked up from his reverie to spot a rough looking fellow dressed sharply in a dull green pinstripe suit. His hair was combed back with a few flyaways bouncing over his brow drawing his eyes to a rather nasty looking gash across the bridge of his nose and then to a spackling of freshly cut stubble on his chin. Objectively, he was attractive; subjectively, entirely not. He wasn’t at all Connor’s type but oh so very much Niles’. Niles always loved the rough looking ones, the ones that looked like they were found in an alley somewhere like a stray dog. Good for him.

“Connor.” Niles voice was weirdly warm and that made the addressed sit up straight and pay full attention to his brother. “This is Gavin. Gavin, this is Connor, my brother.” A calloused hand thrust itself at Connor—ah, so guitar then—and Connor shook it politely.

“Holy shit do you two look the same.” Gavin’s voice was as rough as his appearance but Connor found he rather liked it, nodding to Niles in approval. Niles coughed a bit into his fist and moved ever so slightly into Gavin who casually put his arm around his shoulder. Connor beamed. “So you play piano, huh? You as good at that as your brother is on the sticks? Dude’s a fucking prodigy like, there’s nothing he can’t play, like, even all the weird rhythms and shit.”

Connor bashfully shrugged, grinning at how Niles’ demeanor flushed, sinking a bit as his fingers tapped a gentle waltz. “I’m good enough.” Niles snorted but Gavin just nodded, obviously pleased with that.

“Well, if you ever wanna play with us, we’re happy to use you. Our old keys joined a commune or started one or somethin’ weird like that so I’ve had to plunk a bit and I’m shit at it.” Niles gave Connor a stare and nodded imperceptibly which made Connor chuckle into his water. Gavin blinked and looked at Connor, then Niles before squinting. Niles only smiled and leaned into give him a gentle kiss which was plenty a distracting for Gavin to drop it.

“I’ll think about it.” Connor mused though he knew he would never take him up on the offer. Stuff like playing in bars all night was Niles’ thing. Connor’s thing would always be big concert halls or studios and both brothers knew it. Still, it was really novel and exciting to see Niles with someone, even if it was someone as rough looking as Gavin.

As they chatted, a waitress stopped by and Gavin ordered them a round of beers. Connor had never before had alcohol and Niles frowned deeply, knowing full well Connor had never drank nor been permitted to. Something about that always rubbed Connor wrong. He was twenty-nine years old, not fifteen and today had been a day of firsts. He had meat, he had a real soda and he was going to drink that beer if it killed him.

Niles moved to change the order when Connor slapped down his idea, smiling sweetly at the woman before lifting the drink menu to block Niles from speaking. “And I would like your house cocktail, please. Anything you like.” He could hear Niles squawking from behind the menu while Gavin cheered and with a pleased grin, he put his I.D. back into his wallet, sitting back with hands folded on the table.

“What do you think you’re doing, Connor?” Niles was hissing, low and dangerous. He was pissed, Connor could tell.

“I’m having fun. Aren’t we having fun, Gavin.”

Gavin blinked and raised his hands, his face spread in a confused but amused grin. “Yeah, we are, but I ain’t getting into this.”

Niles was drumming heavily on the table as he leaned forward, but Connor cut him off again, laying his own hand over his brother’s. The fingers twitched, but they stopped. Connor could feel Niles’ feet moving instead.

“Niles. It’s okay. We came here to Detroit to start over, right? To start fresh. You in your band, me…well, me in my everything. I want to _live_ , Niles.” Connor’s voice pleaded, the tapping toes calming as Niles stared directly into him. He didn’t blink for several seconds before he was pulling his hand away, teeth grazing his lip as he very obviously fought with himself.

“Mother will be pissed.”

“Mother can piss off.”

Niles gasped in abject horror and Connor preened. He felt good, felt proud and brave. Today had been good, been fun, and he spent it with his idol, short as it was so he was going to have fun. As if to commit to his declaration, the waitress came back with three beers and this wildly colorful concoction, setting the latter in front of Connor who had gone wide-eyed and evidently uncertain.

Niles sipped his own drink slowly, worriedly. “Are you sure, Connor?”

“Uh...y-yeah.” He was not sure. Still, after all he said, he couldn’t chicken out now so with gusto, he took the straw in his mouth and sucked.

As it turns out, and to no one’s surprise, Connor was a lightweight. One drink and he was giggling, smiling and thoroughly washed completely out. At some point the music had become this experimental jazz thing and Connor loved it. It was a groovy sound and he was playing some unseen piano just whining at how much better it would be had they had a pianist. Gavin was amused as all hell and Niles was in a perpetual state of horror, making the funniest face Connor had ever seen him make. It only made the giggles worse.

“I think I should go help them.” Connor had risen from his seat, drinking the beer Gavin had brought him and another that was pushed his way.

“I think you should sit down and eat your french fries.” Niles had, at some point, grabbed hold of Connor’s suspenders to keep him still. Connor only wiggled out of one before Niles let go to avoid any unnecessary undressing.

“Fries? I ordered a hamburger!”

“It’s coming, I told you, now sit.”

“No, I’ll be—I’ll be right back. I’ll wait for it up there. I’m gonna ask if they need help.” Niles was trying to wriggle out from the booth but Gavin made it difficult. Connor seized this moment to dart towards the other room where the main band played, chuckling at how verklempt Niles was. Too bad, Connor thought as he wormed his way up to the bandstand. Niles was the one who forced him here because he wanted to hang with his new boyfriend, not Connor, so he was going to enjoy himself.

When he got to the stage, he let out a sad little noise as he noticed all but one member had left the stage. “Sir?” He called, leaning up to tug the pant leg of an older gentlemen with an incredible mustache. The fellow blinked and smiled, crouching down.

“How can I help you?”

“Sir,” Connor leaned a bit into the man and the gentlemen blinked, his smile becoming wry. “Sir, is the band over? I would like to volunteer on the piano, the band needed a piano.” The man laughed a single huff, crouching fully to look Connor in the eye.

“You okay there, son? You look like you’re having a good time. Go on, enjoy yourself, we’re okay up here.”

Connor’s brow furrowed and he wrinkled his nose, drawing himself taller before vaulting onto stage to dart towards the upright piano in the corner. The man made a noise and possibly tried to reach to stop him, but Connor’s fingers were on the keys which meant he was in his element.

Everything around him ceased as he zoned in on those keys, his hands poised before opening up with a dominant bebop scale just to get a feel for these keys. It was an older instrument and the keys stuck a little but Connor could adjust, his foot on the sustain pedal craning to hear the timbre. It was a good old girl though she could use a tune up. Maybe half a semi-tone off, her vibrato carrying her flat, but still, she was good. Pleased, he walked down in a mixolydian bebop scale before breaking into a text book rendition of Boog Woogie Country Girl.

Connor had never really played jazz before but alcohol was one helluva thing and he felt loose, fast. Note by note, he started to improvise, adding in quick interjections leading to each note until he was playing Boogie Woogie in an entirely different arrangement, having the time of his life. Who knew you could play and have fun like this?

Once done with his piece, he lifted his hands and looked over at the man he ran passed, eyes bright and hopefully, face still flushed with booze. The man was obviously impressed but Connor was used to that. What he wanted was to know if he could still play, if he was good enough for _them_ , not just good for the sake of it.

“Not bad…a little stiff. You don’t play much jazz do you?”

Connor’s smile stuck and his face warmed. “Was it…bad?” His eyes were swimming and he could feel a wetness when the man simply smiled, turning to begin setting up, bringing a mic over to his piano.

“No, not at all, but you could stand to relax a bit more. Sure, kid, if you can keep up, you can play. The name is Ben, by the way.”

“Connor! Connor Stern!”

Ben’s eyes widened and he let out a bellow of a laugh, clapping his hands together. “Well, no wonder you’re good! Wow, Connor Stern, nice to meet you. Love your stuff.”

Connor’s face kept burning and he ducked his head, always shy when someone knew him.

“Naw, none of that. We’re all the same here; I just have to appreciate talent when I see it. Here, the guys are coming back, let me introduce you.” Connor followed his gaze to the group of men shuffling from the bar, most of them laughing, talking loudly amongst each other. Connor squinted but the lights overhead made it hard to see and whoever the first guy was, he was huge, couldn’t see anyone really but him.

“Hey, old guys!”

The big one scoffed but they all wandered over, Ben introducing them as they got near.

“Connor, this is Luther, he’s our trumpet. The dour one is Jeff, he plays the drums. And this here is—“

“Hank!”

“Yeah! Do you know him?” Ben placed his hands on his hips and grinned, looking very pleased.

Connor was stricken, sobriety descending fast. The man in question hadn’t noticed him yet and Connor had mere seconds to make a decision on whether or not he should run, his body shirking at the piano until a sudden bravado overtook him. No, they hadn’t finished their date early. Why not finish it now? Fueled by the drink and his own minor obsession with the man, Connor stood up, catching himself on the piano before smiling as prettily as he could.

“Hank!”

Hank spun around and for the briefest moment, there was nothing but Hank in Connor’s field of vision. His eyes were red, his cheeks just and rosy as his own. He had been drinking and it showed in his sway but god, he looked so good. His suit fit nicely and his hair was down and wild around his face. Connor bit his lip softly to fight his whimper. The motion did not go unnoticed because Hank’s deep blue eyes flickered down to his lips before he blinked and stumbled forward, hands landing on Connor’s shoulders to steady himself.

“Connor? What the--?”

“My brother! He brought me! I wanted to play and Ben said I could.” Connor leaned into the touch and smiled wide, leaning so very close to Hank. Just a little more and he could just kiss him…

“Connor!”

Hank’s hands disappeared and Connor was bereft without them, finally letting out that whine when his vision was filled with the fury of his younger brother. Niles was talking to the others but Connor wasn’t hearing it, his brain finally starting to clock out from all the booze, the adrenaline and the way his heart fluttered whenever he got close to Hank.

“…sorry….like this…”

“…kay…anytime…just call…”

Niles had a hold on him but he was craning his neck to see where Hank went, the younger brother bending down to hiss in his hear. “This was a mistake. We’re going home.” Connor let himself be pushed but not without one last hoorah, dipping out from under his arms to run up to Hank press a kiss to his ruddy cheek.

“Tomorrow night, Hank! After practice!” Connor was so giddy, it hurt. So out of it, he felt like moving mountains. Hank spluttered and the sour looking man beside him slapped his back hard before Niles had him again, this time in the Grip of Death he was so good for. Connor had barely any time to think before he was in the car, in the apartment, brushing his teeth in the bathroom and then in the bed.

Water was shoved in his face, and he drank, he thinks, but he was on cloud nine, floating in the middle of somewhere very pleasant.

“Niles!” He called, rolling up in his blanket.

“What?”

“I like the bar.”

“Ugh. Go to sleep.”

Connor just smiled and did just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for using Niles, it's definitely because of towts and just, it's my de facto canon Nines name for my own personal headcanon. DX If its too much, I'll change it to Nines.  
> (also, if people like this, I def have a gavin in this universe who is also in a band..)
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on twitter @hobovampyre, tumblr at Hobovampire
> 
> Thanks for reading so far!


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